


Tread Quietly

by oh_fudgecakes



Category: Tokyo Babylon, X -エックス- | X/1999
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, M/M, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 05:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12162135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_fudgecakes/pseuds/oh_fudgecakes
Summary: In a world where the Sumeragi rule over the underground, twenty-one year old Sumeragi Subaru and Sumeragi Hokuto are the only heirs to a legacy of crime and violence. Confronted with the rigidities of the family, the twins play a dangerous game. While the gentle-hearted Sumeragi Subaru disguises himself as his sister to escape the brutalities of being oyabun, the quick-witted and ambitious Sumeragi Hokuto disguises herself as her brother, to protect her beloved twin and escape the mundanities of womanhood. However, Subaru’s whirlwind romance with a mysterious trader soon threatens to uncover their secret. Sakurazuka Seishirou may be perfect in every way, but the cost of discovery by their rigid family— is death.





	Tread Quietly

**Author's Note:**

> **  
> **  
> Some preliminary notes about Japanese organised crime:  
>   
> 
> The oyabun is the head of a yakuza clan. When the oyabun is female, she is usually referred to as an onna-oyabun. Onna-oyabuns are exceedingly rare.
> 
> Yakuza members usually are inked with [full body sleeves in the irezumi tradition](https://www.google.ca/search?q=yakuza+tattoos&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjnkuut4rnWAhXI5oMKHa3oCpQQ_AUICigB&biw=1366&bih=644), which does not use a tattoo gun, but a single needle. Irezumi style tattoos are very painful and usually take much longer. A yakuza member cannot get a full body sleeve all in one sitting. Instead, it usually takes decades for a yakuza member to finish a body sleeve. A completed body sleeve is thus a signal that the member is a senior member.
> 
> Lastly, the practice of yubitsume (finger-cutting) is characteristic of the yakuza. When a member offends someone more senior, the senior may punish the member by cutting off part of their pinky finger. It can be one joint, two joints, or the whole finger, depending on the severity of the punishment. This is because in the old days, this would weaken the person's sword grip and thus, the yakuza believes, make them more reliant on the clan for protection.

“Tread quietly, and with small steps,” she whispers, “Remember, men may walk as if they claim the world, but women may not. Women walk with restraint, with _constraint_ — cross your thighs.”

In the dim flickering light of the candles, he watches in the bronze mirror as she bends to wrap the white _hikizuri_ tight over his legs, before tying everything in place.

“Women walk with their knees bent together and their feet pointed in,” she instructs, straightening, “It preserves the silhouette of the _kimono._ Try. Give it a few steps.”

“I remember how”, he murmurs.

He uncrosses his legs with some difficulty, and takes one measured step, two— drops his eyes as the silk draws tight around his hips in the mirror. He looks…

“That’s it.”

A firm tug to fix the fall of his long sleeves, and then the back of his _hikizuri_ is pulled carefully down.

“A woman’s _kimono_ must expose just enough that it draws the eye, but not enough to be wanton,” comes her murmur, “The back of the collar dips below the nape. The sleeves are loose and heavy so that they slip down to expose the pale arch of the wrist. On _geisha,_ the back dips more. For us, this is enough.”

A light dusting of ground rice over his nape, then she leaves him to retrieve the _obi_ from over the edge of the dresser. It is a dense gold, beautifully embroidered with the floral pattern of the Imperial Chrysanthemum.

“The _obi_ is gold to match the embroidery on the outer-wear,” she continues softly, “In combination with the chrysanthemum, it is also a display of position. We are the Sumeragi, the royalty of the underground, and the Chrysanthemum is our crest.” she slips it around his waist, and starts on the knot with quick, deft fingers, “The main body of the _kimono_ is white. The mourning period is long over, but it speaks of piety to wear white still. Father would have introduced us to society today. As orphaned daughter, a brother will have to do."

She pauses to one-handedly adjust the hem of the _hikizuri._ As she toes the fan of it open behind him, the silk splits neatly from the knee down, exposing the deep, suggestive red of his _under-kimono._

“The red represents the youth and fertility of a woman,” he braces himself as she tightens the obi high around his abdomen, “As a woman grows older, she may not wear so bright a red— but we are still young. We will wear the red under the white. It will peek out as we walk.”

She continues with the familiar twists of the _obi._ It is a formal knot, the long tails and the thick fabric a substantial weight at his back. He feels her passing the _obi-age_ through the knot, and then she steps up against his back to pass it around his waist, tucking the ends neatly into the _obi._ It is a deep red to match the _under-kimono,_ and still visible, unlike the way their grandmother wears hers.

“For older women, the _obi-age_ should be hidden entirely,” his sister explains, as if reading his thoughts, “For young, unmarried women, the _obi-age_ can show a little— but not too much. It should be _suggestive_ , but not _provocative_.”

The _obi-jime_ goes around his waist next. A ivory _obi-dome_ carved like a pair of chrysanthemums had already been threaded onto it. He helpfully centres the clip, takes a small step backwards at a particularly rough tug from behind, and then—finally—she steps back from him and gives him an appraising once-over.

A satisfied smile spreads slowly across her pale lips. Her face is unadorned, unpainted, in stark contrast to his red lips and powdered face. She wears tailored grey trousers and a white men’s shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and unbuttoned to expose the bandages of her chest-bindings, the dark ink of her tattoos.

“Perfect,” she says.

That is, of course, when the anxiety begins to creep in.

“What if I do something wrong?” he blurts out anxiously, “What if somebody realises that I’m not you?”

His sister pauses behind him in the mirror. Then, she reaches for him, sliding her arms around his waist as she props her chin on his shoulder— two identical faces, cheek to cheek.

“Who would?” she asks, “How long have we played this game? No one’s ever suspected anything, and they won’t start now.”

At least part of that is false comfort, and they both know it. If anyone were to uncover their treacherous deception, it would be today of all days— the day the young _oyabun-_ to-be and his sister come of age, the day their new _oyabun_ finally ascends to power _._ This will be the first time they attempt their deception in the wider public eye, and the stakes have only grown ever higher.

But there’s no turning back now— there’s no turning back.

“You’re right, of course,” Subaru whispers, “You’re absolutely right.”

With a kiss to his cheek, his sister draws away from the embrace and turns to pick up her suit jacket, pulling her sleeves down and doing up the buttons of her shirt. Subaru helps her with the cuff-links, and with the chrysanthemum crest that he pins to her lapel. She adjusts her collar in the mirror, before shrugging on the jacket.

A cold look comes over her face, transforming her instantly from beloved sister to cruel _oyabun._

“Pick up your _kimono_ ,” she commands,“It is time.”  


* * *

  
She had come a few weeks past their fifth birthday, the elderly Lady Sumeragi, backed by an entourage of men in somber black suits. Subaru still remembers the stern figure she had cut against the willows outside their house, regal in her formal black _kimono,_ with the chrysanthemum crest pinned to her collar; still remembers the way she had looked down at them as they were introduced, her green eyes as pale as greying jade, and just as hard— just as _cold._

He had never seen their mother as drawn and frightened as the day that knock had come on their door. There had been letters that had come from Tokyo, sealed in wax and bearing the chrysanthemum. He had seen their mother reading them by candlelight in the dead of night. In retrospect, she had probably known who was coming for them.

 _I am the grandmother of your children,_ the Lady Sumeragi had said, _and you will surrender them to me._

 _I want money,_ their mother had murmured from the floor, eyes sharp and sunken from the sleepless nights _._

But the Lady Sumeragi had just looked down at her coldly.

 _A mistress from the brothels should learn when to be grateful,_ she’d said, _and when to be quiet._

The men had carried their things out in boxes. Toys, favourite blankets, favourite presents from the father they had never met. All things of little worth beyond sentimentality. The most valuable things, the little pieces of exquisite jewelry delivered to their mother in place of a husband, they had left behind in their drawers. Their mother had watched them climb into the limousine with sunken eyes, watched the limousine draw out of the driveway and up over the rolling hills, flanked by two men in the doorway of their house.

Two miles away, the sound too quiet to be heard by young ears— a gunshot.

They never heard the crackle of flames, never looked back to see the smoke rising dark and sure over the hilltops.  


* * *

  
Booming laughter, and the clink of _sake_ glasses.

The young _oyabun_ sits at the head of the table. It is his coming-of-age party, and he seems to be in a good mood, laughing at the conversation and standing here and there to clink glasses with the men. The proud Lady Sumeragi sits to his right, and his sister to his left. Every so often, he leans over to whisper in the young lady’s ear, and a small smile will lift the corners of her red lips. Otherwise, she is as quiet as a doll, the twenty-one-year-old Sumeragi Hokuto in mourning colours beside her twin.

Eventually, the Lady Sumeragi stands, and bids the table good night. An elderly lady like her needs her rest, she says lightly, and so she will leave the youngsters to their merry-making. As she leaves the room, flanked by two black-suited bodyguards, she pauses to lay a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder.

“You’ve been quiet tonight, Hokuto,” she whispers, and the young lady’s heart skips a beat, “I know it must be strange, but you don’t have to feel uncomfortable around the men.”

And as the young lady’s heart begins to slow again to a normal pace, she offers her grandmother a smile.

“It _is_ a little strange,” she admits, quietly, “But as they do not require my conversation, I will remain quiet until the night is over. Subaru seems to be having fun.”

The Lady Sumeragi laughs.

“That he is,” she chuckles, straightening up, “That he is.”

The elderly matriarch retires home, and the party goes into full swing. The young _oyabun_ seems to really come into himself then, making toasts left and right, rousing the table with his witty jokes and quick turn of phrase, charming the men — as he always does, with boundless charisma. An indulgent smile comes over his sister’s face and it does not leave for the rest of the night. She looks upon her twin like he hung the moon and the stars, with a small lift to her lips, and a fond glimmer in her eyes.

At some point, however, an inebriated man leans over to whisper in her ear, and she recoils sharply from him with a disapproving frown. But the night has been long, the _sake_ has been plentiful, and the lady is _very_ pretty indeed— he does not take the hint. She yanks her hand from him as he reaches to caress her wrist, and turns to look pleadingly at her brother.

The young _oyabun’s_ face grows suddenly wrathful, frightening despite the delicacy, the femininity of his features.

“Did my sister give you permission to touch her?” he asks lowly.

The man sits back, eyes wide, seemingly realising his mistake. He may be senior, but the _oyabun_ reigns supreme.

“I—” he begins nervously.

“Did she give you permission to touch her?” the young _oyabun_ asks again, barely restrained fury creeping into his voice.

“Please—“ the man says.

Two black-suited men appear from behind him, grabbing him by the elbows and yanking him to his feet.

“Take one finger joint off,” the _oyabun_ declares, turning back to his _sake_ cup.

The man lowers his head, allowing himself to be dragged from the room— but the young Sumeragi Hokuto looks visibly distressed. She pulls at her brother’s sleeve, green eyes reproachful.

 _“Subaru,”_ she whispers meaningfully.

And the young _oyabun’s_ eyes widen, suddenly contrite.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, “I—“

He turns to the room at large.

“My sister and I must take our leave,” he announces, “My sister has no stomach for the violent activities of the family, and she is now feeling ill. We will retire for tonight. Please enjoy the _sake_ and the refreshments.”

They rise, suited men coming to escort them from the room. As the lady stands, the hem of her white _kimono_ splits neatly at the knee. Red. A deep crimson, like blood on snow. The young _oyabun_ guides her from the room with a hand on her back, as a pair of nervous boys come with their coats, eyes lowered. The suited men take the coats, the _oyabun_ ushering his sister quickly along the hallway.

Despite his efforts, a man’s pained scream echoes from the back room before they can reach the door. His sister flinches visibly, and lowers her head, looking troubled. A suited man opens the door. They descend the front steps of the fine establishment, climbing into a waiting limousine.

As the limousine door closes behind them, Subaru turns to his twin.

“Nee-san,” he hisses reproachfully, “There was no need to take his finger for that _._ He was drunk. He barely touched me.”

Hokuto groans, leaning back against the leather seat.

“I’m sorry,” she says, genuinely upset, “I forgot how much that bothers you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not the point,” Subaru bites out.

She straightens, seemingly realising the callousness of her words, and turns to put a placating hand on his forearm.

“You know how it is, Subaru,” she wheedles, “The Sumeragi can’t be seen as soft. As the _oyabun,_ I’m _expected_ to be cruel sometimes. You understand, don’t you?”

Subaru pulls his arm from her, and arranges his _kimono,_ silently. He turns to look out of the window without a word.

“Subaru,” Hokuto pleads, “Please.”

“You’re not actually sorry about what you did,” he says, “You’re just sorry that I had to see it.”

She opens her mouth as if to argue, but, after a long moment, closes it without a word.

They spend the rest of the drive in uncomfortable silence.  


* * *

  
Before the Great Gang Wars, four families had existed in an uneasy truce. The Magami and the Kuzuki amongst them, with the Sumeragi the largest— and the Sakurazuka the smallest and most secretive. Tensions had been high, but the economy had been recovering, and it was agreed upon between the families that bloodshed ought to be avoided, when there was money to be had.

The bloodiest winter of the new century saw the end to that truce. A snowstorm had raged, and a young woman and her family had been found viciously murdered in their comfortable suburban home. The woman had once been a daughter of the Magami, married out of the family and living a civilian life with son and husband before her grisly death.

The most _probable_ explanation, in light of the unforgiving winter, had been that desperate men had grown desperately bold in the relentless cold. The most _compelling_ explanation, however, had been slightly more sinister. _A gauntlet thrown down before the Magami family,_ was the rumour on the docks. _A challenge issued to the heirless patriarch,_ was the vicious whisper in the streets.

A terrible, bloody battle broke out, and soon, gang wars began erupting all over Tokyo. Civilians were killed by stray bullets where they slept in their homes, shopping malls were sacked and looted, livelihoods were destroyed and families were torn asunder, while out on the streets, blood froze over pavements in the bitter cold.

Before the Gang Wars, there had been four families.

In the aftermath, only one remained.

The Sumeragi emerged at the head of the underground, alive, but bleeding slowly out. The Sumeragi’s _oyabun,_ and his brothers, sons, and nephews lay slain in various strifes, and his elderly mother emerged from retirement to retake the throne. She had been _onna-oyabun_ when her husband had died, and she would be _onna-oyabun_ again when her children followed.

Now, in the world that they live in, it is not easy for a woman to become _oyabun—_ there is little room to gain power, little room to gain respect. In the world that they live in, women are to be seen and not heard— _women_ , in all their frail beauty, are not to be _feared._

But the Lady Sumeragi— _she_ , had earned her terrifying reputation.

On the day that marked the end of the Gang Wars, a bomb had been hidden in a tribute, and delivered insidiously into the Kuzuki estate. The _oyabun_ had not been home when it had exploded, bringing the mansion down, killing his men and their families, murdering his wife, and crippling his infant son in the process. By then, the Sumeragi’s _oyabun_ had been dead for less than a week, sons slain in the bloodbath— and the title of _oyabun_ had very newly fallen to his second youngest brother. The Sumeragi had still been in chaos after the unplanned ascension. They had not sent the bomb.

But the Magamis had already fallen, and the month-long silence from the Sazukurazukas seemed to indicate a similar fate. The common criminals, unaffiliated with any family, would not have had the resources to deliver the trap. There had been no one left to blame. And so the Kuzuki’s _oyabun,_ newly bereaved, had gathered a small army out of his remaining men, and stormed the Sumeragi estate in a final, suicide attack.

The _oyabun’s_ elderly mother had retired to her rooms at the back of the estate— an Empress Dowager in the furthest reaches of her fortress, separated from the attack by hundreds of rooms filled with hundreds of men, and her sons and nephews last between them. Through the radio on her desk, she had heard her men scream as the Kuzukis slaughtered their way through the mansion. Through the radio on her desk, she had heard her lieutenants die as the Kuzukis pushed past the main hall. Through the radio on her desk, she had heard them massacre her children right outside her rooms.

When she had moved into those rooms after her husband’s death, she had ordered that candles be burnt day and night in the long parlour leading up to her room. _A pious widow_ , whispered the servants in the halls. _Candles burnt in honour of her dead husband_ , explained the wives of the Sumeragi family.

What she had never told anyone, was that those candles were there for a _very practical reason._

Her bedroom lay two sliding doors behind the parlour. When the Kuzuki’s _oyabun_ had entered the parlour with his remaining men, the candles had cast their flickering shadows through the _shoji_ of her bedroom. She had picked up her handgun, and shot them down, one by one, through the _shoji,_ as they ran, and screamed, and died, shooting blindly and desperately at her through the screens.

She had only gotten a single bullet graze to show for it.

In the aftermath, she had walked through the estate, all in white, carrying the severed head of the Kuzuki’s _oyabun._ She had called back the men stationed outside the estate, gathered the survivors who lay injured and afraid, and summoned them all to the main hall of the mansion. Blood had stained the hem of her mourning dress as she raised the Kuzuki’s head for all to see, as she looked down at them with her pale jade eyes, and declared: _do not fear, for the Sumeragi reigns supreme_.

But the years passed and the Lady Sumeragi aged, heirless, and soon there came disgruntled whispers from her elderly cousins, whose disgruntled children, and disgruntled grandchildren, were not in line for succession. Rumours of a takeover had just begun, when two illegitimate children were discovered, and retrieved from the countryside in the spring.

 _Sumeragi Subaru_ had been the name sweeping the reverent lips of fifty-thousand men that spring.

 _Sumeragi Subaru_ had been the name of the Lady Sumeragi’s last remaining grandson.  


* * *

  
The next morning, his sister comes to his rooms with a peace offering: an invitation to lunch at his favourite restaurant, just the two of them. That no one else will join them means that they can both go as themselves.

Subaru heaves a small sigh of relief at that. It’s been years since they’d begun this little game of theirs, but he still does not like the heavy wigs and ornate fabric of pretending to be Hokuto. She, on the other hand, takes to being herself _and_ Subaru with uncanny flair. She’s always been the more charismatic twin— terrifying one moment, and demure the next. She slots her arm through his as they leave the house, resting her hand delicately in the crook of his elbow. They leave the chrysanthemum pins in their trays.

Behind them, black suited men trail them discreetly as they take a leisurely stroll down to the restaurant. A black sedan follows two blocks behind them, should they decide they would rather drive. The restaurant is only about a fifteen minute’s walk away, however, and they’d always both preferred walking to driving.

The restaurant owner comes rushing down the hallway as the servant boys take their coats at the front door. They’ve been here often enough that he knows who they are, bare-collared or not, and is appropriately terrified. He personally escorts them out into the courtyard.

“The blossoms are quite the sight this spring,” he stammers, “I hope it is to your liking.”

That’s the one thing about visiting establishments under the Sumeragi’s protection. The staff are so eager to please, and they always get the best view, the best service, and _usually,_ privacy to top it all off. Today, however, there is a young man sitting at a table under a flowering _sakura_ , drinking tea. Subaru can’t help but be curious. The owner reserves the courtyard tables only for very distinguished guests. He wonders who this man may be.

“Let’s go and find out,” Hokuto whispers, and they change course to amble slowly over to him. He’s looking up into the cherry tree _,_ but he turns toward them as they approach.

He is— very good-looking, is Subaru’s first impression. Dark-haired and strong-jawed, with uncommon hazel eyes and a broad build. At odds to his size, he carries himself in a way that seems curated to put others at ease. Kind eyes and a kind smile, with gentle hands and strong fingers. He has the hands of an artist, and Subaru finds that immediately attractive.

Hokuto, as if sensing this, clears her throat.

“Good morning,” she greets.

“Good morning,” the stranger returns, smiling politely, “It’s not often I see others in this courtyard.”

“That was precisely what my brother and I were thinking,” Hokuto says, and holds out her hand, ever the social butterfly, “Kogo Hokuto.”

Subaru closes his eyes briefly.

 _Kogo_ for empress, in place of _sumeragi_ , emperor _._ He wants to strangle his sister for the pun.

“Related to the empress?” the man asks teasingly.

Subaru _really_ wants to strangle his sister now.

“Very witty,” Hokuto teases back immediately, “But no, it’s written differently. We actually get that a lot. _Kogo_ isn’t the most common surname.”

“That it isn’t,” the man agrees, and takes her hand, shaking it, “Sakurazuka Seishirou.”

 _Sakurazuka._ That had been one of the main families, hadn’t it, before the gang wars had wiped them out? Hokuto seems to be thinking the same thing, because she raises an eyebrow.

“Related to the family, or just a namesake?”

“A distant cousin,” the man admits, with admirable honesty, “Distant enough that even if the Sakurazuka _were_ still operating, I wouldn’t have been involved in the business.”

Hokuto laughs.

“So you _are_ someone important. I must add here that I know a man who _would_ have been the Kuzuki _oyabun_ , had the family not collapsed in the gang wars. He is a very dear friend.”

Subaru does recall the boy she’s talking about— a coltish blonde lover she’s been seeing for a number of years, gentle, wheelchair-bound, and with very ordinary aspirations. Their dalliance has necessarily been a well-kept secret. The boy’s family would not approve. They would not approve _at all._

“The elders may recall old grudges,” Subaru ponders aloud, “But their grandchildren have only known normal lives.”

Sakurazuka’s gaze flicks over to him.

He has intelligent eyes— very sharp, and suddenly very, _very_ interested. Subaru can’t help the beginnings of a flush under the close attention.

“And who might you be?”

“Kogo Subaru,” he manages, extending his hand.

Sakurazuka takes it, but instead of shaking it, he just holds on to it gently.

“It’s a pleasure,” he murmurs, without taking his eyes off of Subaru.

His eyes are very light in colour.

Hokuto clears her throat, and produces a fan from her bodice, which she flicks open to hide her smirk. Subaru wants to kick her. He’s flushing, he can tell. They’ve always had a complexion prone to obvious flushes. It occasionally brings him a great deal of embarrassment. This is one such occasion.

“The pleasure’s mine,“ he returns, and draws his hand reluctantly from Sakurazuka’s grasp, “It’s— nice to meet you. Sakurazuka-san.”

“Please, call me Seishirou.”

The flush is deepening.

“Seishirou-san,” he compromises.

Hokuto’s grin is starting to look slightly maniacal behind the fan. Sakurazuka— _Seishirou_ , Subaru corrects in his head, takes a step back, and Subaru somehow manages to pull his eyes away.

“Ah,” the man says, and draws out a chair, “Would you like to sit down?”

“Oh,” Subaru hesitates, then reaches, flustered, to pull out a chair for his sister— he’s never had anyone pull a chair out for _him_ before— but Seishirou intercepts him, pulling the other chair out and gesturing for Hokuto to sit, giving her a slightly sheepish smile as they all take their seats. It’s— charming.

“Oh, and they’ve forgotten the menu,” Seishirou observes then, and stands again, “I’ll just go and get one.”

“Oh no, please, let me—“ Subaru begins, but the man just waves him down and strides briskly off into the restaurant. The door swings shut behind him.

Hokuto turns immediately to him.

“He fancies you~” she sings gleefully.

“Nee-san—“ he begins.

“He _fancies_ you~” she just sings, even more gleefully.

“We don’t even know if he likes men for sure,” he tries to protest.

“And you fancy him~” she sings, and Subaru puts his face in his hands because once she’s got an idea like that in her head, it’s not going anywhere. His sister is stubborn in that way. “I know what you look like when you see a man you find attractive,” she crows, looking unbearably self-satisfied, “And that was it right there.”

A bell tinkles as the door into the interior of the restaurant opens. Hokuto’s fan makes a sudden reappearance. Seishirou returns with three menus, which he hands to each of them with a kind smile.

“I always recommend the _sakura_ tea here,” he says jovially, “But I have heard that the _hoji_ is just as good.”

Hokuto makes a face.

“I don’t prefer _sakura_ in the general case,” she admits, before adding tactfully, “Though I’m sure Subaru would be delighted to try it.”

Seishirou turns his disarming eyes back on him.

“And do you prefer _sakura_ in the general case?” he asks, in a slightly teasing tone.

“I enjoy the fragrance,” Subaru replies shyly, “It reminds me of spring.”

“And I _do_ come across the most beautiful flowers in spring,” Seishirou comments, and _something_ about the way he says it makes Subaru think he isn’t really talking about flowers. The realisation— flusters him. Seishirou is _flirting,_ and he’s not quite sure how to respond. He’s never really met a man so open in his intentions towards other men. His own dalliances have always been shy, secretive things.

“It’s true that the _sakura_ are especially vibrant this spring,” he deflects instead, lowering his eyes.

When he looks up through his lashes, Seishirou is watching him intently.

“I couldn’t help but wonder,” Hokuto cuts in quickly— bless her uncanny intuition for when he’s at a loss for words, “What it is you do.”

Seishirou’s gaze finally shifts away from Subaru.

“I supply specially crafted instruments to those who can afford it,” he answers, and Subaru’s interest is immediately piqued.

“A musician!” Hokuto cries.

“Just a humble businessman,” Seishirou corrects with a laugh, “I admire those who play, but I myself lack the musical inclination to be any good at the art.”

His sister’s smile turns sly.

“Then you’ll probably get along with my brother,” she prods, _“He_ plays the _koto._ ”

 _Unsubtle._ He lightly pinches her arm underneath the table, but she just pinches him back, _hard,_ and continues unapologetically.

“He plays a number of other instruments as well _._ He wanted to be a musician when we were children.”

“Unfortunately,” Subaru cuts in then, embarrassed, “Some aspirations don’t carry well into adulthood. I’m not nearly as good at it as I would like to be, and our grandmother does not approve even if I were. It is not the most respectable profession for a man, in her opinion— unlike going into the business of _supplying_ rather than _playing_ instruments.”

Seishirou just laughs.

“Society often imposes irrational limits based on the strangest of things,” he comments lightly, “Being born a woman, or being born a man, being one such thing.”

“I agree,” Subaru says immediately, and then flinches a little at how heartfelt it had sounded, struck by the reminder of how inappropriate it is to air such strong opinions in public— “Not to say that such limits don’t have a rightful place in keeping order and tradition,” he demurs.

Seishirou just _looks_ at him with those observant hazel eyes. He feels himself flustering under the man’s gaze.

“Well—“ Hokuto comes swooping in to save him then, “Not to derail the conversation, but I was wondering where it is that you conduct your business. Perhaps we will come visit your store,” and with no small amount of innuendo— _the traitor,_ ”I think there’s _definitely_ an instrument there that’ll catch my brother’s fancy.”

Seishirou lets out a short burst of surprised laughter.

Hokuto preens.

And Subaru is _really_ going to strangle her once they get home.

Tactfully, Seishirou chooses to answer the initial question.

“I do not own a storefront,” he confesses, “My business goes round by word of mouth, so I keep my stock in my own home, and deliver it when I get an order.”

Subaru can’t help the pang of disappointment.

“That makes sense,” he says, looking down into his lap as he wonders— how inappropriate is it to ask to visit a new acquaintance in their home?

When he looks up, however, Seishirou is watching him again. The man looks away when he realises Subaru is looking, but it appears that his thought had been obvious on his face, because Seishirou clears his throat, and continues, very casually— “Though, if you would still like to visit, I really wouldn’t mind at all.“

His eyes flick up, and Subaru’s breath hitches a little, held captive again by those lion-gold eyes.

“And if you _do_ come to visit,” he murmurs, “I would _love_ to hear you play.”  


* * *

  
In the spring that the twins arrive at the Sumeragi estate, the aging _onna-oyabun_ encounters— for the first time— the problem that will plague the Sumeragi for the years to come.

Their future _oyabun,_ young and sweet, has been allowed by his mother to grow up _soft._

The five-year-old Sumeragi Subaru is kind and gentle, with ordinary aspirations, and ordinary likes and dislikes. He has a soft spot for animals. He enjoys music and art. He loves his sister, and his grandmother— and every other person he meets, really, with a strange but charming lack of guile. He dislikes vegetables. He hates thunder. He despises the cold.

And he cries, _dreadfully,_ when others are in pain.

The young Sumeragi Subaru is an obedient child, that ought not to be mistaken. He is sweet and loves with every fibre of his being. He endlessly charms whoever has care of him. It is only during the— _lessons—_ on the family business, that the dreadful wails will begin to echo through the hallways.

The young Sumeragi Subaru, _oyabun_ to be, cries when others are in pain, and coming into contact with the brutalities of their business— the shop-owners that need to be intimidated, the whores that need to be disciplined, the drug debts that need to collected— it all distresses him very much. And little Subaru— he has a very distressing cry, heartfelt and vulnerable and so terribly, horribly heartbroken. No one likes to hear little Subaru cry. Not even the hard men of the Sumeragi with their tattoos and missing fingers and somber black suits.

But he needs to learn. _He needs to learn._

 _“Quiet!”_ the terrifying shouts will come down the hallway, _“Stop crying! What is wrong with you? What is wrong with this child? Be quiet!”_

And the cries will cut into fearful silence.

No one likes it.

But it has to be done.

The day after his sixth birthday, the Lady Sumeragi brings him to a room in the corner of the mansion. There’s a man strung up, shirtless and gagged and bruised all over.

“This man,” she tells him calmly, “Is a member of one of the old families. He was caught trying to infiltrate our ranks so that he could hurt us, and gain vengeance for his disgraced family.”

She hands him a small knife.

“Hurt him,” she commands.

Little Subaru looks down at it, and balks.

 _“Hurt him,”_ she commands again, more agitated this time—

But little Subaru just shakes his little head.

The _onna-oyabun_ stands up, and strikes him hard across the face.

“I _told you to hurt him!”_ she shouts down at him, “Is that _so hard to understand?!”_

Heartbroken wails begin to permeate the halls. The men standing at the door flinch, hardening themselves for another round of tears, but this time, the _onna-oyabun_ has had enough. She will teach him a lesson. There is no place for tears in the world that they live in. She cannot— _cannot_ afford to be soft on him any longer, no matter how much—how much it _pains_ her.

“Give me your gun,” she says hoarsely, to one of the men standing guard.

He hesitates, eyes flickering down to the crying child.

 _“Didn’t you hear me?”_ she snaps, “Give me your _gun!”_

He draws his gun from his holster, clicks the safety off, and hands it wordlessly to her. She takes the gun, and shoots the prisoner right between the eyes. Gore splatters the wall behind him. He slumps in his bindings, eyes wide open and staring sightlessly, unmistakably dead.

The crying stops immediately.

The _onna-oyabun_ does not look at her grandson as she turns to leave the room. The men follow her silently out.

“Obaa-san?” the little boy calls.

She turns— and _bolts the door shut._

_“Obaa-san?”_

A pause.

The door rattles as tiny hands try to slide it open.

_“Obaa-san?!”_

Little fists begin to bang on the door from the other side.

“ _Obaa-san!”_ comes the bloodcurdling scream, “ _Don’t leave me here, baa-san! Help me, baa-san, I’m scared! Baa-san!”_

She hands the gun back to the man she’d taken it from. He takes it without meeting her eyes.

“Don’t let him out,” she orders, “And don’t let him know you’re standing outside, no matter how much he cries.”

She returns to her room on the other side of the estate.

Even from there, she can hear the screams go on for hours and hours until finally—

The house goes quiet.

 

* * *

  
Hokuto waits till they get back home, back into their rooms, before she begins to jump around— _shrieking._

“Oh my god,” she’s laughing, “Oh my _god,_ I can’t _believe_ that man!”

“Hokuto—“ Subaru hisses, looking over his shoulder in case someone’s heard them—

“Have you ever met a man as forward as _that?”_ she jumps onto her western-imported sofa, and bounces once, twice, before she plants her elbow on the armrest, chin supported on her palm— “But he was very handsome, wasn’t he?” she gossips, the _fearsome head of the Sumeragi,_ reduced to gossip-mongering, “And such a gentleman too. I do think he _is_ quite the respectable member of society, no matter how small he tried so humbly to make himself seem. The owner wouldn’t have let him out into the courtyard otherwise.”

 _“Nee_ -san,” Subaru sighs, taking a seat next to her, more dignified, “You’re making it sound like you’re marrying your daughter off or something.”

“I’m marrying my _darling_ baby brother off,” she corrects, “And that’s just as important!”

“But we’re not getting married,” Subaru protests weakly, “We’re both men.”

She turns to him with a frankly terrifying gleam in her eye.

“But you _fancy_ him~” she crows, waggling her fingers in a strange gleeful gesture— what does that gesture even _mean,_ anyway, “And he fancies _you~”_ she puts her hands to her face, letting out a short burst of shrill laughter, “And I just know it, soon you’ll be off, riding into the sunset!” she declares girlishly, “The romance of the century— no, the _millennium!”_

She flops over onto her back, laughing.

Subaru lets her giggle to herself for a few moments.

“I don’t think,” he says quietly, as her laughter begins to peter off, “I want a relationship with another man.”

She turns onto her stomach, and blinks owlishly up at him.

“But you’ve only been attracted to men,” she points out.

“Yes— but—“ he manages with some difficulty, “There’s no future in a relationship with another man. Sooner or later, grandmother will find me a woman, whether I like it or not, and what will my lover do then?”

Slowly, Hokuto sits up, reaching to arrange her skirts back into a proper state. There is a thoughtful look on her face.

“You know,” she says, seriously, “You don’t always have to do what grandmother wants.”

A pause.

“Was _this_ why you ended things with that Magami boy?”

 _“Kamui?”_ Subaru asks, “No, that was— that was just a— He found a more serious lover and we decided to let it go. It wasn’t— It was an agreement we had with one another, as friends. It wasn’t serious. We always knew it was going to end once he found the right person.”

“And what if _you_ find the right person?”

He just laughs.

“But I haven’t,” he says, “I don’t know if I’ll ever find someone right enough to be worth it all. Nee-san, it’s— it’s going to make grandmother _so unhappy._ The whole family will be affected. I’m her last grandson, nee-san. I can’t _not_ give the family an heir. I can’t. Who would be worth that? If there’s any such person, I certainly haven’t met them.”

“But if you _did_ meet them—“

“I haven’t,” Subaru says, “And there’s— there’s nothing wrong with the way things are now! I’m not _unhappy!_ ”

Hokuto just looks at him for a moment, searchingly, before she sighs and drapes herself over the armrest gloomily.

“There isn’t a _single_ romantic bone in your body,” she laments, “Why am I even related to you?”

 _“Every single bone_ in your body is romantic,” Subaru complains in return, prodding her arm playfully, “Why am I even related to _you_?”

“Because I am incontestably the best sister, of course.”

Subaru narrows his eyes at that.

“The best sister who tells attractive men embarrassing things about me?” he challenges, before he puts his hands in his face as the memory of that encounter comes rushing back. _“Nee-san,”_ he groans, “That was _so embarrassing._ ”

Hokuto sits right up.

“So you _do_ admit that you found him attractive!”

He opens his mouth, pauses, and then closes it. He stands up.

“Well, I think I will retire for today,” he says mildly, pretending not to hear Hokuto’s shrill protest, “I would like to practice a new song before dinner, and I will see you then. Rest well, sister dear."

He picks up his jacket— and _flees._

As he ducks into his own rooms next door, he hears Hokuto bang her fist against the wall separating them, shouting, _“You did! You did say it! Don’t think I didn’t hear you, little brother, come back here!”_

He plays a couple of loud, random notes on the _koto_ to drown her out. She bangs on the wall, still shouting, and he winces as the _shoji_ doors rattle in their sliders. His sister is utterly terrifying. Finally, after one last _thump!—_ the banging subsides. He hears the barest sounds of her retreating into her room. With a sigh of relief, he slumps over into the stool in front of the _koto,_ tossing his jacket over a nearby sofa.

His sister, he thinks solemnly to himself, is a _force of nature._

 

 

And yet— regardless of all his stated intentions—

 

 

He finds himself on the doorstep of a little shophouse a few days later, holding the slip of paper Sakurazuka Seishirou had given him. He looks down at the address written on it, then back up at the building. It seems to be the right place.

Despite his better judgment, he reaches out slowly, and hesitantly pulls the rope hanging by the door. He draws his hand back, as if burnt, as a loud bell tolls. A few seconds of complete silence, in which he quickly contemplates heading home before he does anything _stupid_ — and then he hears distant footsteps coming towards the door, stairs creaking quietly. The door opens. A familiar face peeks out of the narrow doorway.

The man’s hair is a little more tousled now than it had been in the courtyard, and he’s dressed casually in western-styled clothing. The narrow doorway just serves to make him look taller, _broader_ — he sincerely looks like he would have difficulty coming through the door with those shoulders of his. Embarrassingly, Subaru feels his cheeks beginning to heat up.

The man is as attractive as he’d remembered.

A smile lights Seishirou’s face up as he catches sight of Subaru.

“Kogo-san,” he says warmly.

It takes Subaru a few moments to process the unfamiliar name, before he remembers the alias that Hokuto had so spontaneously made up, and winces.

“Please,” he says, smiling weakly, “Call me Subaru.”

He follows Seishirou up a narrow flight of stairs, stepping over some umbrellas, a stack of newspapers— an empty crate? At the end of the stairwell, they duck through a narrow door and into— an _incongruently_ spacious, incongruently modern apartment.

The space is so unexpectedly large that he actually looks back over his shoulder— and he had _not_ imagined how narrow that rickety wooden stairwell had been. The parlour stretches out into an open sitting area, set against the bright glare of the windows with its shutters thrown wide to let the sun in. The floor is covered in dark wood, and the walls are painted cream. The furniture is all very western. In the corner by the windows, there’s a sleek grand piano.

Subaru pulls his eyes away from it— _a grand piano!_ — with some difficulty, only to note with confusion that it is the only instrument in the room. Seishirou seems to sense that, because he directs Subaru across the apartment, with a gentle hand on his back. They come to a door, which he opens into darkness.

“This,” Seishirou declares, feeling along the wall by the door, “is where I keep my stock.”

The light clicks on.

Subaru’s eyes widen.

There are— all sorts of instruments in the room. The majority of them are of a traditional make, finely crafted and _quite_ luxurious. Along one wall, a row of _shamisens_ hang from hooks, along with a couple rows of flutes— _shakuhachi_ flutes, _gakubue_ flutes, _kagurabue_ flutes. On the floor, there are varying sizes of drums, and he even sees a viola or two, a normal-sized piano, and a silver flute against the opposite wall. Seishirou pulls open the velvet curtains over the window, and—

 _Oh,_ he thinks, taking a few steps forward.

He runs a finger over one ivory bridge.

“This is a very beautiful _koto,”_ he says, admiringly.

And it _is_ a beautiful instrument, matte wood under silver strings and polished ivory bridges. The ebony of the instrument’s head and tail is lacquered to a shine, with inlaid pink mother-of-pearl and ivory on golden boughs. The motif is expertly engraved— _sakura_ branches against an ivory moon.

On second glance around the room, the instruments are all crafted with similar motifs— a _shamisen_ with blossoms of pink ivory twining up the neck, and on one _biwa,_ a detailed carving of a _sakura_ is engraved at the end of the handle. Branches creep up the sides of the drums. Even the single wooden piano in the room has floral motifs painted onto its case.

Seishirou just watches Subaru take it all in.

“You play _,_ don’t you?” he asks, “The _koto?”_

Subaru looks down shyly.

“I’m not very good,” he deflects.

He looks up through his lashes at Seishirou.

The man is still watching him.

“I would love to hear you play,” he says, “After some tea.”

They leave the room and sit in the parlour. Seishirou leaves him briefly to brew the tea and retrieve the cups. He returns with a western tea-set, painted porcelain with its little cups on little plates. The tea, when he pours it out, has an unfamiliar fragrance. The man adds what appears to be milk and sugar to his tea.

“Is this not Japanese tea?” Subaru asks.

“It’s English tea,” Seishirou’s eyes flick up to him, “Do you mind?”

“No,” he says.

Subaru adds a bit of the milk, stirs in a spoonful of sugar, and lifts it to his lips for a small, careful sip. It’s— sweet. Accustomed to the bitterness of Japanese tea, he’s not quite sure what to think at first. He takes a second thoughtful sip. As the sweet flavour of it spreads over his tongue, he decides that it _is_ quite pleasant. Hokuto would probably enjoy it as well.

“I hope it’s to your liking?”

He nods.

“I like it,” he admits, “It’s sweet.”

He licks the sweetness from his lips, and Seishirou’s eyes drop to them.

Subaru can feel himself starting to blush.

The man draws his gaze slowly back up to Subaru’s eyes, not making an effort to hide the appraisal in his stare— not making an effort to hide the _admiration._ He makes eye contact with Subaru again, and _smirks._ He’s being— very candid in his intentions, his crooked smile lazy and completely unashamed, and Subaru is not sure what to do about it all.

The man puts one hand over his wrist, the movement slow, and leans in.

“Erm,” Subaru breathes, eyes widening, “I— _Seishirou-san_ —“

He draws in a breath as Seishirou’s other hand comes to his jaw, tilting his chin up, and into a kiss. His eyes fall closed, a shiver snaking up his spine as Seishirou coaxes his lips open with his own, kissing him slowly and deeply. The kiss is everything like the man he’s kissing— gentle and unhurried, but with quiet confidence, quiet _intensity._

He opens his eyes as Seishirou pulls slightly away, gasping when he leans in for one more chaste kiss— before drawing away completely.

“There’s something else here,” the man says, wickedly, “That’s even _sweeter.”_  


* * *

  
Amongst the ranks, the men whisper.

They whisper that the Lady Sumeragi had been born _fearless_ , that she had never feared in her life. They whispered that the Lady Sumeragi had been born _loveless_ , that she could smother a child without batting an eye. They whispered that the Lady Sumeragi had been born _heartless_ , that heartlessness was what she’d needed to end the Gang Wars, with such ruthless calm, moments after she had witnessed the massacre of her youngest children.

These are the rumours that allow the Lady Sumeragi to do what she does: to disdain, to kill, to sit at the head of the biggest crime family, and command fifty thousand men to lay themselves at her feet. These are the rumours that lend her the reputation of a demon, that raise her as a myth above other women. These are the rumours that give her _power over men._

But the tragedy is: the Lady Sumeragi is none of these things. She _is_ , after all, human too.

And so _quietly,_ she hurts.

And so _quietly,_ she _fears_.

An hour after the crying stops, she rises from where she had been sitting, white-knuckled in her parlour, and returns to the room in the corner of the house. A storm rages outside as she approaches the door, and the men stationed there do not look her in the eye as approaches. She knows what they think of her. She knows what they say of her.

“Open the door,” she commands.

They bow low, and they obey.

When she enters the room, it takes her awhile to locate her grandson. She had imagined that as the hours passed, he would have cried till he slowly grew tired of crying, and, becoming restless, would have started looking around, would have slowly— as a child surely must— begun to grow _bored._ She had imagined that she would walk in to see him wandering the room restlessly, perhaps even testing the windows for opportunities to escape and play in the yard. She had expected to see a bored child.

She had been wrong.

Her grandson had been curled up in the furthest corner of the room, silently, back to the corpse still hanging from the ceiling. He had not responded when she had called his name. He had not responded as she approached him. He had not even responded when she laid a hand on his small shoulder, and pulled him back towards her.

His eyes had been wide and unseeing, the light in them gone out— like colours seeped away from greying jade.

“Call the boy’s sister,” she had managed, through her horror, “ _At once!”_

And, as she heard the hurried, frightened footsteps of her men fade slowly into the distance— she had scooped the little boy up into her arms, and held his face to her shoulder. She had shed her favourite silk shawl, and bundled him in it. She had rocked him, gently and slowly, calling his name. She had cried. _Quietly,_ with her voice muffled in the little boy’s little shoulder— she had cried.

Then, she had wiped her tears away— no time for tears, no _chance_ for tears— straightened her _kimono,_ and waited numbly for her men to return with her granddaughter.

When the little girl had entered the room, her eyes had caught on the grisly sight of the man still hanging from the rafters. For a moment, the Lady Sumeragi had feared that she too would dissolve into tears, the sight much too violent for the eyes of a little girl. But her gaze had been unafraid, disinterested even, and her attention had quickly been captured by the state of her beloved twin. She had numbly surrendered the child to his insistent sister, allowing her to fuss and coo quietly to him.

She had only pulled herself together when the men had started looking into the room.

“Call someone to take that worthless body down,” she’d commanded, waving a hand at the corpse still hanging from the rafters, “And throw it into the river— the fishes can make some worth of it. I want the bloodstains out by tomorrow morning. Have the servants come in, and have someone escort the children back to their rooms.”

She had stood and watched as the man cut the body down. She had not turned around when her grandson begin to respond, slowly and quietly, to his sister. She had not turned around when the servants streamed in, and they were ushered from the room.

Perhaps she should have.

That night, after the storm had passed and the body had been disposed of, she had ventured into the nursery on quiet feet, and sat by the cot to watch over her grandchildren’s slumber. Her granddaughter had been fast asleep, beautiful as an angel— and it took her a moment to realise that the little girl had been _alone on the cot, alone in the room._

The nursery window had been open, a chair pushed beneath it.

And the Lady Sumeragi had gone cold all over.

Little Subaru had run away.

_Her little Subaru had run away._

Panicked, she had stood and run out into the gardens in her sleepwear. She had found the marks of little feet in the mud, and had chased them, frantically, through the grounds, and out of the estate.

Fortunately, Subaru had left only recently, and it was not long till she caught up to him in a nearby park. A friendly young man had come across her little boy, bent down on one knee to talk to him. Her heart had calmed as she slowed to a walk, staying quiet so as to not startle the pair.

But she’d soon realised that something was amiss.

The young man had stood with a gentle smile, and taken hold of one of the boy’s little hands. When he had tried to lead the little boy away, Subaru had resisted, growing suddenly frightened— and the cordial smile had _dropped_ with disturbing suddenness, as he reached down to grab the boy’s wrists. Her stomach had plummeted as Subaru began to _wail._

She had drawn her gun from her _obi_ and _fired—_ once, twice.

The man had jerked, once and again, as the bullets sunk into his shoulder one after another. His hand had flown up to the wound, and come away black in the darkness. Then he’d looked up at her for a moment— a split-second, not long enough for her to make out his face— before he’d turned, and _fled._

She had curbed the urge to give chase— and run over to her crying grandchild instead. He had turned his little face into the hem of her sleeping dress, still crying, and the thought that she ought to discipline him had crossed her mind briefly. It had quickly been dismissed. She had been too relieved, too shaken to scold him for running away.

“Come on, my child,” she’d murmured then, wiping a tear quietly away, _“Let’s go home.”_  


* * *

  
A full moon’s night, quiet and starless. In the storeroom of a shophouse in central Tokyo, Subaru distractedly plays the next bar of a familiar song _—_ pausing for a messy, open-mouthed kiss over his shoulder, and laughing breathlessly as the man at his back grips his hips, pulling him back into his lap with a playful bite at his shoulder.

He plays another bar before he turns back over his shoulder— and whimpers as he’s kissed again, rough and wet and _hungry_.

He comes away from the kiss panting, one hand going down to the arm around his hips, then to the hand curling large and proprietary over the inside of his thigh, and Seishirou mouths hungrily down the side of his neck in response. Subaru is startled to find that he’s trembling, shivering with it— and this— this has gone so much further than he’d planned, this has spiralled so wildly out of his control, and he’s—

Seishirou huffs out a quiet breath against a particularly sensitive spot. He throws his head back against the man’s shoulder, gasping, one hand coming desperately down on the _koto_. The strings _twang_ discordantly.

“You little _liar,”_ Seishirou rumbles into his neck— and _oh_ , how that makes him _shiver_ — “You said you _weren’t very good.”_

“I’m _not—_ very good,” he gasps, and the protest cuts out into another whimper as a large hand sneaks up under his shirt, as a wet mouth makes its way down his jaw. A rough thumb passes over his nipple.

_“Liar.”_

His eyes fly open as the other hand come up to fumble at his collar—

_His tattoos._

“Seishirou—” he begins, and moans as the man _rolls_ his nipple between thumb and forefinger, _“Seishirou—“_

He twists, manages to slip from the man’s arms and step quickly around him.

Still panting, he slows to a teasing stroll, hand coming up to fasten the buttons at his throat coyly. He looks over his shoulder, and Seishirou’s eyes are dark now, _hungry—_ so far from the charming hazel that day in the courtyard. He looks like he could _eat Subaru alive_ , and that thought makes something squeeze tight and low in Subaru’s stomach.

 _God,_ he had _not_ expected to lose control like this.

He slips quietly around the doorway. Seishirou follows on silent feet, smooth as a shadow. The movement of it, that low slinking gait, is like being _stalked, hunted_ by a cat. He eventually settles with his hip against the keys of the piano— it lets out a mournful _twang—_ and turns, breath still coming a little short, to look at the man who’d be his new affair, if it weren’t for the pesky little fact that Subaru _cannot take his shirt off in front of him._

He turns to the piano, lifting the sheets on the stand to inspect the foreign markings in the light of the moon. Bars of lines cross the paper, with little dots going up and down the lines, and small curvy symbols here and there.

“What’s this?” he asks, still a little breathy.

“Music.”

A hand at his hip, but Seishirou does not plaster himself up against his back again— which Subaru appreciates.

He sets the sheets gently back on the stand.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to read these,” he declares then, still dizzy, still emboldened by their kisses to confess this, “I’ve always wanted to learn to play. My grandmother won’t allow it, of course. She doesn’t like that Japanese society is growing more westernised.”

His fingers spread across the keys, black and white and so very foreign— and he closes his eyes, curling his fingers in a familiar pattern, a familiar song, pressing down lightly—

The keys just jangle in strange disharmony.

He opens his eyes, chuckles a little at himself, and lets his fingers slip slowly from the black and white keys.

“These keys,” he announces, obviously, to the man at his back, “are not at all like a _koto.”_

But the man does not laugh.

Instead, his arms come around on either side of Subaru, long fingers spreading elegantly over the keys.

 _Sa-ku-ra,_ he taps out, _sa-ku-ra._

_No-ya-ma mo sa-to mo._

Subaru’s eyes widen, and he turns around in the man’s arms to shoot him an accusing look. He has to look up to do so, pressed chest-to-chest, and half a head shorter than the man.

“Who’s the liar _now?”_ he challenges, “You said you couldn’t play any instruments.”

Seishirou just huffs a chuckle, and bends his head.

Subaru lets his eyes fall shut as he’s kissed again, slowly and deeply, lets his hands come up against the man’s chest as the man leans forward, bending him backwards over the piano. He stumbles a little, thighs hitting discordantly into the keys, and yelps in surprise as strong hands come under his thighs, hefting him up to sit on the keys.

_Twang._

_Oh,_ he thinks, as those hands push his knees apart. Seishirou comes right up between them, kissing his neck, his jaw, his ear— his hands fly up to the man’s shoulders as the man spreads him out, arching him backward over the piano, still kissing him silly.

“Seishirou,” he moans, as the man grinds down into him, _“Seishirou.”_

Hands grasp the hem of his shirt.

His eyes fly open, his own going down to stop them from pushing the hem _up._

 _“Seishirou!”_ he cries, and this time he does not have enough mind to hide the panic in his voice.

Seishirou draws back, questioningly.

“I—“ he begins— damage control, _damage control_ , “I was just—“

Seishirou cocks his head slightly, and there’s— a strange gleam in his eye, and Subaru—

“I’m _shy!”_ he blurts out thoughtlessly, _“About having others see my body!”_

Seishirou— blinks, and leans back, obviously surprised.

Any arousal that Subaru had previously felt is immediately wiped out as he _dies a little on the inside._

He covers his face with his hands to hide the blood rising furiously to his cheeks. That was— that was a _terrible_ excuse— actually believable, but _so poorly thought out_ , and now he’s so, _so embarrassed._ He doesn’t know where that had even _come_ from. Oh god. He doesn’t know how to recover from this embarrassment.

A disbelieving chuckle, which is quickly muffled, and then two large palms are planted on either side of his head.

He peeks out through his fingers.

Seishirou is leaning over him, his eyes amused but indulgent. He bends down when he sees Subaru looking.

 _“Cute,”_ he murmurs against Subaru’s lips —

And Subaru wants to _die._

“Hey, hey,” he laughs, pulling Subaru’s hands away from his face, “There’s no need to hide. You can keep your shirt on— you can keep it _all_ on, if it really bothers you. I don’t mind.”

He leans down, and kisses Subaru on the lips.

Subaru tenses instinctively, but relaxes gradually into it as he’s kissed slowly and gently. Seishirou coaxes his lips back open, unhurried, unrushed, deepening the kiss gradually, nipping light and playful— and when Subaru finally shivers, and lets out a little moan, hands coming up to clutch at the man’s arms— he feels those lips curl wickedly against his.

“Or what we can do instead,” the man suggests then, quiet and sly, “Is we can go into the bedroom, where the curtains are drawn, and the lights are turned off.”

He plants a quick kiss against Subaru’s lips.

 _“And we can have a little fun.”_  


* * *

  
On the day that little Sumeragi Subaru had run away from home, something had changed.

Something had changed on that day so long ago, and no one would notice it then, nor in the years to come.

While little Sumeragi Subaru had slumbered away that night, exhausted after his traumatic day, little Sumeragi Hokuto, young and sweet, had been coming to a sudden awareness of her own reaction, her own _lack_ of reaction— to the family’s violent business. And right then and there, she had begun to _think._ She had begun to _plot._

The next night, alone in the nursery with just her brother and her, she had turned to her twin on their little cot, and she had whispered quietly into the darkness—

_Tomorrow, let’s play a game._

The next day, when her brother had been called from their rooms, she had stepped into his clothes, put on a trusting smile, and gone for his lessons in his place. She had walked like him, talked like him, had even sniffed and _cried_ like him, while back in their rooms, her brother had stepped into _her_ clothes— had smiled, giggled, and _laughed_ like her— and had taken _her_ lessons on art, on etiquette, on music and history.

The day after that, they repeated their little game. Off she went to learn about drugs, and debt-collecting, and arms-smuggling, while her brother stayed in their rooms and learnt to paint and play the _koto—_ all the things that _she_ detested, but _he_ loved _—_ all the things that _he_ hated, but _she_ preferred. And so they had done it again, the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that. She had learnt to hold a gun. He had learnt to sing.

As the weeks passed into months, she had gradually stopped faking her brother’s tears— had gradually stopped faking her brother’s distress. Slowly, she had begun to let her own personality shine through, her sharp tongue and calculating wit, her loudness and occasional _meanness_. And these traits, that others had disapproved of in her, they had approved of in her brother. And those traits, that others had disapproved of in her brother, they had approved of in her.

Her brother had always been quiet, and kind, and a little shy. And while others had found that _weak_ in a _boy_ , they had found it _pious_ in a _girl_. She, on the other hand, had always been loud, and fast-talking, and sometimes, she knew— a little too witty for her own good. And while others had found that _annoying_ in a _girl_ , they had found it _charismatic_ in a _boy_.

The same traits that had the servants shaking their heads, had bought her the camaraderie and respect of the Sumeragi’s men.

The same traits that had her caretakers sighing and frowning, had paved the way for her to become _oyabun._

The day after their fourteenth birthday, their grandmother had brought her to a little room in the corner of the house. There had been a man hanging from the rafters, naked and bruised, and as she had looked up at him, unimpressed, her grandmother had handed her a little knife.

“One cut, Subaru,” she had said, “Just one little cut.”

She had blinked stoically at her grandmother, then taken a step forward— and slowly sliced the flesh off the man’s thigh in one continuous strip, from hip to knee, as he screamed and thrashed.

The very next day, an old man had been called to their home. Their grandmother had been in a good mood all day, and she knew it had something to do with that old man. She had gone down to the kitchens and terrorised the younger servant girls— the servants, after all, heard everything that went on in the house— and she had found out that the man was an _irezumi_ artist, come to give the young _oyabun_ his first ink, his first rites of passage.

In the evening, her brother had been called to his room, and she had waited outside in the parlour, all alone, as the elderly artist worked on her brother in the next room. When the man finally emerged with his needles and ink, hours later, closing the door behind him, she had dropped her kimono from her shoulders, and looked coldly at him with her breasts bared.

“There is something you will do for me,” she had said quietly, “Or I will scream, and when my brother and the servants come running, I will tell them that you tried to force yourself on me. I will have you hung from the ceiling and flogged to the bone, and then I will flay what’s left of you, piece by piece, with a carving knife, as you die slowly from the pain.”

And so, that night, after the young Sumeragi Subaru had fallen asleep, exhausted, with fresh ink and fresh blood over his shoulders— the elderly artist had taken up his needle, and he had done what he had never done before in his long career.

He had replicated his own work, scale for scale, and petal for petal, on the body of another person.

Throughout it all, the young lady had grit her teeth, had bitten the pillow, had twisted and wrung the sheets in her fists, had even shed a tear or two— but, by the time it was over, she _hadn’t made a single sound._ A painful process, long and arduous, that could make even grown men cry out, and she had borne it all silently, alone in the dead of night with no one to witness it. No one, they both knew, could ever know what they had done.

In the aftermath, the artist had cleaned off the blood and kept his tools as the young lady had lain, exhausted, on the mat. The shoulders had been completed, but he would be back again, and again, and again, a work decades in progress, to extend the sleeve down the arms, the back, the thighs, and the calves. It would be hard. It would be painful.

“Why?” he’d asked quietly.

And alone with no one else to hear it, exhausted and delirious from the hours of relentless pain, the young lady had chuckled.

“Wouldn’t you?” she had whispered tiredly, “To take the place of the person you love most? To be hurt and hated and cursed in their name? To save them from the cruelties that await them?”

Their eyes had met over the bloodstained sheets, and the man had bowed to her once in acknowledgment, in _respect._

“I will see you again soon, _onee-sama.”_

In the following years, he had come back again and again, time after time. From afternoon to night, he would toil away on the skin of the young man. Afterwards, as night fell, he would do the same for the young lady. By their eighteenth birthday, he had completed the dragon stretching up from waist to shoulder— had begun the head of a leaping carp on their hip. There would only be the arms and legs left before the work was complete.

“Why a carp?” the young lady had asked then, making a face as he marked the scales on her brother’s body, “A fish. How underwhelming.”

And the artist had smiled.

“It represents your journey, _onee-sama,”_ he’d said quietly, “The carp that leapt over Dragon’s Gate, to become a dragon.”  


* * *

  
When Subaru returns to their rooms the next day, his clothes crumpled, and his shirt buttoned all the way up to hide the marks— his sister ambushes him in the parlour.

“You slept with him!” she accuses.

“I did,” he says.

“Even after you said you weren’t going to!”

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh my god!”

He puts his face in his hands.

“In my defence,” he says weakly, “I had not gone over with the intention of sleeping with him. It just— happened.”

And his sister— the _insufferable monster_ that she is— just flops over on the couch, and starts to _laugh._  


**Author's Note:**

> The carp leaping over Dragon Gate is a reference to a Chinese myth. In that myth, there is a waterfall cascading from the top of a legendary mountain, and at the top is a gate known as Dragon Gate. The legend goes that if a carp were to swim from the bottom of the waterfall up to the top, and leap successfully through Dragon Gate, it would become a dragon.
> 
> This may take awhile to be updated as I have signed up for a Yuri on Ice Big Bang. I am taking a short break from my other WIPs to work on that. Any updates will probably come next year.


End file.
